Happy Father's Day

I woke up this morning remembering my father.

He died (I dislike my mom's description of "we lost him." It sounds as though we've simply misplaced him) in early September nearly seven years ago.

My father was a scrappy little man. He was pugnacious and frequently difficult to live with. His parents and older siblings were born in Italy, and he grew up in New York City straddling two cultures. At age twenty, he risked alienation from his family by marrying an Irish girl he fell in love with one night at a birthday party for his best friend.

For most of my childhood, Daddy was a raging alcoholic. I had already left home by the time he decided to get sober. Many of my early memories are colored by alcohol.

It took years for me to recognize that my father's demands for perfection grew out of his own insecurities. If I came home with a report card with five "A"s and one "B," he'd scold me for the B. He was never satisfied.

I can still see him looking at one of the four of us, shaking his head and saying, "Quando gli sciocchi hanno continuato la sfilata, lei portava la bandiera." Translation: When the fools went on parade, you were carrying the flag.

His employment record was checkered. He was never unemployed, but--until middle age--he rarely stayed anywhere for very long. I suspect employers had to balance his considerable skills against his personal issues.

Despite having only a high school diploma, he saw to it that all four of his children graduated from college. My paternal grandparents were appalled that he insisted on sending me to college when he had three sons to educate. They saw no point in higher education for a daughter.

He never hesitated. "She goes to college."

Daddy could always be counted on in a pinch, or when things were really mucked up. After I put his car through the wall of the house, he never blinked. His only concern was that I was all right. After only one attempt at teaching me to drive, he paid a small fortune to put me through formal driving lessons. When I had four accidents in my first few years of driving, he just shook his head and helped me to replace yet another car.

Years later, when I made the decision to quit a job where I was making over $100K to go back to graduate school, he was the only person who supported my decision. Family and friends suggested I think about it before resigning. Only Daddy said, "Do what you believe is right." That encouragement in the face of so much disproval meant a great deal to me.

When I earned my Master's degree, he was very proud.

He remained married to his first love, my mother, for fifty-one years and was sober for the last twenty of those years. He insisted on celebrating their fiftieth anniversary six months early because he didn't think he would live long enough to make their anniversary and didn't want to cheat my mother out of the celebration.

He surprised himself by living another whole year. He managed to live to see three of his four grandchildren born and to delight in all of them.

Thank you, Daddy. God bless and keep you close.